Suspect
by Mucada
Summary: “She waited at her bench, coffee cold in hand, calculating his moves like he was a suspect, knowing when he’d show, following his patterns. To catch him in the act.” Olivia talks to Elliot. PWP.


Title: Suspect  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Disclaimer: NBC's, etc. Things talked about that seem unfamiliar are just creations to move thetalk along.  
A/N: First ever SVU fic, ever. I have no idea how this all works, so please be patient as I find my groove. I hope these guys aren't OOC.  
Summary: "She waited at her bench, coffee cold in hand, calculating his moves like he was a suspect, knowing when he'd show, following his patterns. To catch him in the act." Olivia talks to Elliot. PWP.

888

_Living is easy with eyes closed  
Misunderstanding all you see  
_-Lennon

888

Life was just too strange to even try to comprehend. That's why she doesn't. Anyway, that's what shrinks are for. Not that she would ever see one unless work demanded it. They're the exact opposite of friends, they tell her what she doesn't want to hear, and who wants to really be around that, especially if you're the one paying for it. Comprehending was the hard part, and lately she's been thinking about Elliot, and why she's been doubting him

But right now all of this didn't matter, except that the subject at hand was approaching. Olivia was sitting on one to the green park benches near the entrance of Central Park at 72nd and 5th, drinking a small coffee. She wasn't doing the people watching, something she tried hard not to do outside of work (for once she wanted to feel like a normal person,) but rather, she was waiting. She knew the day and time—Saturday at 9a.m.—and knew well enough she had a chance of running into him during his morning run. This morning was gloriously quiet, which meant no calls from work, and which also meant it would be the opportune moment to find him outside of the office and outside of the work atmosphere, where he wandered around as a detective machine, void of proper emotions. A walking bomb, the typical hardened and melodramatic cop, who "had seen so much." Couldn't he for once be normal? No, not normal, she actually didn't want normal, she just wanted what she had always expected of him, since she first saw him.

There was a voice, deep inside her mind that screamed, "Way to be a fucking cop, Olivia." As usual, she thought about _not_ acting like a detective, yet she was able to pull it off like always, even on a Saturday morning in the middle of the summer in Central, while appearing as any other visitor around. She waited at her bench, coffee cold in hand, calculating his moves like he was a suspect, knowing when he'd show, following his patterns. To catch him in the act.

9:04a.m., and there he was in all his, suave, "there's no doubt that I'm a cop," glory. If he wasn't so fucking cliché she'd pretend to hate him, but she couldn't even try. Down the path he came in a jog, and she turned her head to the side, hoping he wasn't looking in her way and that for once he wouldn't notice the small things like she did. The co-worker outside of work, sitting on the nondescript green bench in the park uptown. She decided then if he approached she would play it cool. Hell, she had every right to be in the park in the morning. She wasn't stalking him. Obsessively.

He ran past her to the right of her bench, heading south, headphones on, down the hot asphalt like a man on a mission. She knew better, but she exhaled anyway in spite of just being there, and allowed herself to be quietly surprised when he turned around and ran in front of her.

"Didn't think I saw you, did you?" He removed his headphones, hands on his sides as he breathed heavily.

"Didn't think you thought that much of me to assume I even knew you were there," she replied quickly, having played the conversation in her mind earlier.

"Like you wouldn't had seen me, sitting here," and as if to prove his point, in some stupid way like bullshitting with a suspect in the interrogation room, he sat down next to her, facing the same way she was, like he wanted to prove that she had a perfect picture of the entrance up ahead. They weren't dumb when it came to each other, so she had no idea why they even tried. It was like some fucked up courting, like they were trying to flirt in some weird language that only they caught on to. It was all the same, their games, the conversations, the body language, it was like a dance. An unofficial dance, just like courting.

"It's like I can't get away from you," she joked. How many times had she said that to him? This week alone?

And how many times had he replied, "Like you'd ever want to get rid of me," with that toothless smile he gave, like a Cheshire cat. If she was an artist, she would have marveled at his facial expressions and features, how large anddemanding hisface was, and his concealing smile however small still had to be taken into notice. If she had a pencil, and an artists' hand, she would draw him constantly throughout the work day to capture his emotions he pretended were different. Now that was obsessive.

She promised herself never to think or talk about work, outside of the precinct. So she said to him, like all the promises left in pieces around the corners of her life, "How fucked was that guy after you took the swings at him?"

Like the gossips they were, so naturally since they were after all detectives—it was the essence of their jobs—he replied, "Like his fucking life was over."

"It is though, isn't it."

"Once the jury decides, it'll be all over for him, the crazy bastard."

"Law system's a bitch like that, especially if you're playing against it." The man did kill his wife, after all. If you're going to do a crappy job at covering your tracks and making up lies about being robbed and beaten up, you're going to get caught. We'll hunt you down and make you wish you never did it. That was the whole point to Elliot's interrogations.

Yet sometimes, the thought just came to her now when she thought she left it home to just ponder over, she was curious if Elliot would ever loose the edge. His tactics at work, the brink of his sanity, the continuity of his life: these all seemed to be hanging dangerously close to the edge. There'd be a moment were he blows up while questioning, or times when she wondered when he's finally loose it. And then there were times when he couldn't let go, let it all run free from him. He'd be cynical about it then, because it was the only way he knew how to deal with it. "I'm sorry for not crying like you wanted me to," he'd say. One moment he could be loosing his cool, the next minute he's be hiding all the anger away. It was if he couldn't decide which wrong way to dealing with emotions was the best to initially destroy himself with.

That's exactly why she wanted to talk with him in the first place, indirectly. Must have skipped her mind when she realized she wasn't in work and had the day to herself for once.

"We still here?" he asked, his elbows resting on his knees and his head tilted in her direction, questioning her.

"All here," she said, offering what she hoped was a good enough excuse for a smile. He gave her his grin, which could have been looked upon as a smile of insanity in the wrong lighting. Luckily the sun was out, blissful for this hour and to someone who seemed to never see the sun. But the insanity would come in time, because while the hell not talk about this now, while they were here.

"You're thinking," he said, as if knowing she needed a starting point. He was too good at the whole breaking the ice. God damn detective.

"I've been thinking a lot actually, Elliot," she said, tasting the coffee left in the cardboard cup. Lukewarm, just as she suspected.

"About?"

"You actually," she replied, straightforward and direct. She had nothing to gain from this, except an argument, the denial, the hatred they sometimes pretended to have.

"You're thinking about the Rickett case aren't you?"

"Among other things," Olivia said, in her most concerned voice she could muster for this to work, "I don't want to sound like shrink bullshit, but you need to think about this."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," he said, shaking his head, not looking at her. Would he just fucking look at her?

"Look at me, Elliot," he did, and she continued, "We have to talk about this. I don't want the Captain to card you on this, because I see that that's where this is going."

"Letting him get to me, and I'll prove him wrong," he retorted, in a low voice, daring her.

"But you can't prove him wrong, not this time."

"Are you saying that I can't do my job?"

"Don't put words in my mouth. I'm just concerned about you. You've been all over the board lately and I don't think you're that stable right now."

"I'll know when I'm reaching the edge, you don't have to hold onto me to make sure I don't fall."

"But I am, Elliot. And you're fucked up right now. Seriously, you're out of control." There, she said it. How long has it been since she first thought about this?

"Well, you finally said it, Olivia," he said as if interpreting her thoughts, his voice cynical, "How long were you waiting to say that, huh?"

"Too long," she said, matching his intensity the only way she knew to hold him, even if he pretended to not listen to her. She knew he was thinking right now. She always knew when he was thinking about something, because of the way he seemed to mask it all with his hard gaze. She knew better, she knew how he acted.

"You just can't accept that I take different approaches to things," he retorted, incredulous. Again, she knew better. When would he learn that his petty attempts at pushing her away, being stubborn, were just justifying her case even more?

"Bullshit," she said, tired of this, finally sick of his games, "you make this so easy for me, Elliot, and you pretend to wonder why I ask this, but you know what I'm talking about. You have anger management problems, alright? Just accept it and don't make us bother to dance around this anymore."

"Us," he whispered, not looking at her, and speaking in such a low voice she was sure he was only muttering to himself.

There was a flicker in his gaze when he looked up, telling her that he was taken aback by her bluntness and anger. He was relentless, still. He wouldn't accept this as a problem. She hated him sometimes. Later she would tell herself she loved him for it.

888

This could beship or not, but I always like to see it as ship. Fucked up ship. loves E/O

Tell me what you think. :)


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